


Enough for a Lifetime

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John Watson, John Is So Done, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: “You know what I want. Let’s see what you want, shall we?” John crosses his arms, nods to the floor in front of him and waits.





	Enough for a Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the GIF set story posted by the very talented phqyd-roar here...
> 
> https://phqyd-roar.tumblr.com/post/161654187177/when-sherlock-is-too-pretty
> 
> ...don't miss out! It's perfect.
> 
> And thank you for letting me borrow them!
> 
> And thanks for the beta to Saladscream, who is kinder to me than I deserve. For Salads and Pepe - my favourites!

“Enough,” John says quietly.

Sherlock stops mid-drawl and turns apparently lazy, disinterested eyes towards him. The last of the cool, afternoon light casts his face into relief as the winter evening begins to drift shadow into the corners of their sitting room, soft blue and purple. It catches the curve of his arrogant mouth and the grey of his irises, as if they too have given up their colour to the dying daylight.

With his hands on his hips and his elbow leant on the mantel, he’d look like a character from some Edwardian period drama except for the curve of his exposed throat and the buttons on his aubergine shirt, which are stretched obscenely tightly across his chest. His long fingers frame how well his tailored trousers fit him, starkly pale against the black wool. The index finger of his left hand has slipped inside the fabric, snug between the silk and the waistband. Such an innocent gesture, it would probably pass as subconscious if it were achieved by anyone else but Sherlock Holmes.

John hasn’t heard a single word of Sherlock’s case deconstruction. He hasn’t even made it to his armchair, waylaid as he is by the perfection of Sherlock’s artfully draped form.

He lifts an eyebrow questioningly at John, but must see something in his face that makes him stand straighter, turning slightly to square off with him. His hands lower to his sides - not quickly, nothing that could break the tension or the way that the atmosphere seems to have become thickened and stretched between them.

“That’s enough,” John repeats deliberately uncurling his fingers from the fists that they’ve become.

“Sorry, am I boring you?” His expression reveals little except a skim of mild surprise, carefully constructed and elegantly displayed.

“You know.” John clears his throat and purses his lips. “Of course you know.”

“Most likely,” Sherlock responds coolly. “But you’ll need to be more specific.

John snorts a small, harsh laugh. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

Sherlock tips his head, considering. He takes his time with an intense gaze that leaves John feeling laid bare. “Alright,” he says carefully. Taking a breath, he presses the palms of his hands together in front of his chest. “You have repeatedly told me, in countless ways how impressed you are by my unique skills. You know my methods. You know how little escapes my attention. Why, now, are you surprised that I have deduced something about you?”

“Because I thought we were ignoring it. I thought the way we were going to get through this was to pretend it wasn’t there.”

“Pretending is for children,” Sherlock chides in a voice that curls around John like smoke. It rekindles his feelings of anger and humiliation.

“Pretending is how we function as a society, _Sherlock_ , so don’t pull the sociopath card on me – I know better. Pretending oils the machinery of living. Pretending keeps us from brutal truths and uncomfortable secrets.”

“Brutal truths and uncomfortable secrets don’t scare me.”

“No? What does, then?”

Sherlock tosses his, “Not much,” answer over his shoulder as he turns to feed the blaze in the fireplace with some larger logs now the flames have sufficiently caught.

John knows he should leave it, just walk away, like he has a hundred times before but this time it’s different. The games they’ve been playing all these months have taken a turn for the serious. Up to now they’ve had deniability, they’ve had Sherlock’s disregard for social norms and John’s position as a devoted friend to hide behind. John’s known for some time that Sherlock is aware of his attraction to him. Flirting is too coarse a word, but there has always been something between them – an awareness, an acknowledgement, maybe.

But then Sherlock began to subtly change the rules. At first John thought it was himself, projecting his own unacknowledged desires onto Sherlock’s naïve sexuality. He felt like he was taking advantage of their friendship. He drove himself distracted, berating himself for noticing Sherlock’s little quirks, the physicality of him, the grace of his form and the thrill of his intelligence. He caught himself staring too often. Thoughts of Sherlock would plague him; torment him even as he greedily hoarded them. But as Sherlock’s ‘quirks’ became more blatant and less innocent John began to question the motive behind the new level of their interactions.

Sherlock has drugged him before now in an effort to understand something; he can be quite callous in his methodology when he wants answers – he doesn’t let little things like ethics or legalities get in the way of his quest for data. John has always thought that their friendship exempted him from Sherlock’s more mercenary side. He’s considered himself protected from the worst of Sherlock’s ruthless traits by virtue of their association, but maybe he has been wrong.

He can think of no reason why the consulting detective would want to change the way things were between them, other than the obvious one, but when has Sherlock Holmes ever done something for an obvious reason? John would be stupid to assume that there isn’t some greater, more esoteric reason that Sherlock has begun to tease him.

Goad him.

Torment him.

The lingering glances, the way his tongue draws attention to his lips, the way he roughens his voice around John and the theatricality of his hand gestures, the way he emphasises his hips and thighs in those tight trousers that he wears more and more often without a jacket to disguise them. They are all in John’s top ten favourite things and it has taken him long enough… too long to notice that Sherlock has noticed him noticing… and has begun playing along.

He speaks to Sherlock’s back wondering what has happened to the man who told him he was ‘married to his work.’ “So what are we going to do? Now that we’re not pretending anymore?”

Sherlock turns his head from tending the fire to look at him sidelong as if this were an everyday conversation, as if it were trivial, as if John doesn’t feel like he’s bleeding out slowly on the faded carpet of the flat. “Well, that depends entirely on what you want, John.”

And something in John snaps at the slight amusement that catches the corner of Sherlock’s lip. It’s been so long, so blatant. John has seen that Sherlock is capable of cruelty, but he never thought to be its object.

Betrayal, humiliation, anger and dread roll slickly in his gut, but always, _always_ it’s the want that moves him.

“I want to fucking mess you up,” he grits, forcing the words past a clenched jaw.

The world pauses, or so it seems to John. Either that or he is suddenly deaf to the fizz of the fresh logs on the fire and the rumble of evening traffic outside.

He didn’t know he was going to say that – something so reckless and real. He becomes aware of his words even as they impact on Sherlock who turns to face him, very straight, very slow, his face as pale as John’s ever seen. Sherlock’s eyes don’t seem to be able to look away from the train-wreck that is his life right now. John can _taste_ the words still, heat and salt and promise thick on his tongue. He expects to feel them in his gut too, but instead there is only a cold certainty. It might not have been what he meant to say, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Either way, this ends now. It has to, John realises suddenly. He cannot take any more.

Sherlock is silent for a long time. His eyes barely even blink but they trap John completely, even breathing is something he has to remind himself to do under the colourless scrutiny of his gaze. He knows his face has reddened, he can feel the prickle of its heat on his cheekbones, but he doesn’t look away. Not this time. No more games.

Very slowly and carefully, Sherlock opens his hands, turning their mute message to John and he lifts them away from his body in surrender. “Go for it,” he murmurs and swallows.

It’s like a neutron star has reached critical mass and exploded out into the universe, messy and spectacular where before there had only been unimaginable pressure and silence. John feels it rush through his body, in the spaces between his cells, in the vibrations of the atoms of his being. He breathes easily for the first time in weeks.

He smiles tightly and licks his lips. Sherlock’s eyes follow his tongue and his eyebrows twitch as his hands drop back to his sides. He turns his head a fraction of an inch, but it speaks volumes.

“No,” John says simply.

Sherlock blinks and rocks back on his heels a little. He’s confused and so badly out of his depth that John almost feels pity for him.

Almost.

“You’ve been calling the tune for long enough now with your little games and tricks. You knew the whole time exactly… _exactly_ what you were doing to me. Don’t try to deny it!” John raises a warning finger as Sherlock takes a breath to respond.

“You know what I want. Let’s see what you want, shall we?” John crosses his arms, nods to the floor in front of him and waits.

A wry, little smile twists Sherlock’s lips as if he can’t quite believe that John is capable of turning the tables on him so completely, but as John lets a little of his intent reach his face and eyes, Sherlock’s smile fades.

For a full minute, neither of them move. The fire crackles merrily in the grate and the daylight in their little flat continues to wane. Soon the streetlights will come on to steal the last of the natural light to replace it with ambers and umbers and washed out excuses for colour.

On a normal night Sherlock would play the violin or tap away furiously at his laptop. John would read, watch something mindlessly undemanding on the television and make them tea.

Nothing about tonight is normal.

Their words have blown normal to pieces and they can only watch as dust settles to see what it has left them.

John knows that this heightened state will only last so long. He knows that once it passes there is every possibility that he will have to face a future without Sherlock Holmes in his life and he can only begin to imagine the hollowness. The tide of frustration is all that keeps him standing now with disaster so very close at hand.

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls, demonstrating that he is breathing still but that’s his only tell. John can only imagine the processing happening in the ridiculously over-analytical brain of his. The longer he takes the more pessimistic John feels for the outcome, but quick, angry sex isn’t what he’s looking for if that’s all that is on offer.

John begins to believe that he has his answer and is mentally tallying how long it will take him to gather up his life again and move on. So when Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath and steps forward, John almost flinches. His next step is equally as difficult, judging by the bow of Sherlock’s head and the slow blink of his eyelids. He takes another. And another. His sixth step brings him to the very edge of John’s space – close enough that he can argue that he has complied with John’s request but with enough distance that he can spin away again if he chooses. He waits.

“Me?” John clarifies, somehow squashing the surge of hope that accompanies it. Sherlock’s nod is barely perceptible. His eyes cast down and his face blank, it’s all John has to go on.

“Why now? You know how long I’ve… You know how long. So why now?”

Sherlock turns his head away, hiding more of his expression from John. “You were never going to act on it.” His voice is strained and unsteady.

“Maybe I had a reason for that,” John says calmly, considering it’s the understatement of the year. But he doesn’t want to go into that now, doesn’t want to be distracted by whys and wherefores. He has Sherlock rattled in a rather stunning volte-face, and he’s not going to give that up without a fight.

Sherlock sighs and shrugs. “You reasons were unfounded. You feared rejection. You feared that it would ruin our friendship. You feared taking one final step to admitting that you’re not as straight as you pride yourself on being. This isn’t the army anymore, John. You don’t need to protest your heterosexuality at every opportunity. And you are sufficiently estranged from your family that their views need no longer determine your choices.”

“Oh,” John breathes with a sour, wide-eyed smile. “So you were helping me out. Right, I see that now.”

Sherlock hates John’s sarcasm, despite the fact that he employs it himself on a daily basis. John can see this from the tightening of his fists and the frown that weighs his brow when Sherlock glances at him sharply before looking away.

“I was indicating that you need not have worried about being rejected. I thought that one less reason might tip the balance.”

“It’s been months, Sherlock!” John presses his lips together. He’s not going to lose control now.

“Your reasons were more deep-seated than I anticipated. I miscalculated.”

“And then you began to enjoy it…that you could affect me like that and so easily. Did I amuse you?”

Sherlock twists his head in denial, shaking off John’s words.

“It’s so easy, it’s almost a game for you. You break hearts wherever you go, don’t you?” John hisses.

Sherlock snorts an unhappy sound. “I have noticed that my physical form is attractive to people and equally, I have observed that the attraction is usually short lived and lasts only as long as it takes for me to open my mouth.”

Sherlock looks so disappointed and battle-weary… _human_ … that John’s fists automatically unclench and begin to reach for him. He squashes the impulse ruthlessly.

“It occurred to me that you might be of the same opinion but with a higher tolerance for my sparkling personality disorders. Perhaps you found me pretty enough to want but not worth the investment in the long run.” Sherlock lifts his head and finally meets John’s eyes with a challenge.

“I’ve lived with you for three years, Sherlock. I’d say I was pretty well invested. Don’t try to justify your teasing with your insecurities. It doesn’t fly.”

Sherlock pinches his brow then runs a hand through his hair. “What do you suggest, then?”

And, really it’s so simple that John has a hard time believing that Sherlock doesn’t see it. “Tell me what you want.”

“If it were that simple…”

“Tell me.”

“John, if you would just think about it…”

“Sherlock! What. Do. You. Want?”

“You!” Sherlock shouts, throwing his arms out to the side in exasperation. “It’s _always only ever you!”_

“Was that so hard?” John grumbles and pushes his hands into Sherlock’s hair, bringing his head down to nudge at his lips with his own. Sherlock’s lips part in surprise and John watches his eyes as he carefully fits his mouth there.

It’s shockingly unfamiliar in its intimacy but so overwhelmingly full of rightness and feelings of home that John groans a little into the kiss. It seems to jolt Sherlock out of his reverie too as he reaches out to grab at John’s shirt and haul him in closer. He’s good at returning kisses, but he waits for John to lead the way. John is fine with that – it’s easy to pour his attraction and admiration into their kisses but its edged with his frustration. He nips at Sherlock’s lower lip with sharp teeth and fists his hands deep into his curls. He chases his tongue and sweeps it with his own, soft but insistently. And Sherlock only moans back at him, which just urges John further.

He’s not gentle as he forces Sherlock backwards, using his chest and shoulders to push him. They stumble and stagger to the sofa where John neatly takes Sherlock out at the knees and bounces him onto the cushions. Sherlock looks wrecked, his hair in disarray and his mouth already pinking up nicely. John doesn’t admire his handiwork long, he knows Sherlock is already winding up to being demanding again and this is not about that right now. Later, maybe.

He kneels on the cushions between Sherlock’s splayed legs. Next time he will make the time to undress him properly; take him apart, slowly, piece by piece. Again, now is not the time. Planting a hand beside his head, John leans over Sherlock’s sprawl and looks him in the eye as he palms his swelling cock through the fine material of his trousers. Sherlock’s eyes flicker shut and he bites his lip so sweetly when John can feel his hips rise up into his touch completely wantonly.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock’s gaze is dark and dazed. John watches him carefully as he skilfully unfastens Sherlock’s trousers and lowers the zip, giving him no time before he shoves his hand inside his pants and curls his fingers instinctively around his cock.

Sherlock jerks beneath him, in his palm, against his chest, his breath punched out of him as he arches his neck and grunts in a sound so desperate, John’s toes curl with it.

In a second, John is on his feet, kicking off his shoes, socks and jeans. Sherlock’s body is still bow-tight when he turns his attention to his trousers and shoes and he curses when he has to yank and pull to get him the way he wants.

John straddles him, retaking his position looming over Sherlock with his hands planted either side of the man’s head. He waits until Sherlock’s eyes lose some of their delirium before he deliberately lowers his body so their groins meet and drag together through two thin cotton layers. It’s perfect and John just takes a second to appreciate that despite Sherlock’s whine. His skin is warm and firm against the slight softness of John’s belly.

With one knee forced into the back of the sofa and the other balanced on the edge of the cushion, John can’t get the perfect angle or as much range of motion as he’d like but there’s no time to worry about that now and this will get them where they need to be.

John arches his spine to get as much contact as he can before curling back and dragging the other way. Sherlock’s cock feels sublime as the fabric lets them glide together. He can feel how hard and full Sherlock is and can’t resist glancing down their bodies to where he rides his dick, hard and steady against Sherlock’s.

He knows they won’t last; their argument had them both halfway to coming before they even made it to the sofa. Sherlock feels solid and real beneath him, the scratch of his hair and the lean muscle of his thighs ridiculously arousing. John sets up a brutal pace, revelling in the heat and the dark prickle of sweat smeared between them. Sherlock pants and strains below him. His hands come up to grasp John’s forearms in a bruising grip.

“God! John, yes…” Sherlock growls and stretches up to catch John’s own gasps in his mouth. And they’re there. John feels the first pulse of Sherlock’s climax as he drives them headlong over the edge. The wetness drags, giving John a friction that treads the edge of painful as he comes himself, rocking them raggedly through Sherlock’s shudders and the hammering of his own heartbeat. The sweat and semen scent of them combined is indescribably right.

Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, one arm thrown over his head when John feels coordinated enough to bend down to kiss him. Outside the sickly colour of the sodium streetlights flickers on and changes the room to match the dance of the firelight. John’s beginning to get tired, keeping the bulk of his weight off Sherlock. He’s warm wherever they touch, but Sherlock only has his shirt, and he must be feeling the chill this far from the fireplace. John stirs himself.

“It was never a game,” Sherlock murmurs, tightening the arm he has curled around John’s shoulders. “Not the way you’re implying.”

John doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just breathes them in and waits.

“For you to overcome whatever reasons you had for keeping silent… only you could make that choice. But when I saw your reaction to my behaviour, I found I rather enjoyed your… undivided attention.”

“As if anything else could catch my eye when you’re around, you berk,” John tells him, quite surprised he can string such a complex sentence together given the circumstances.

“I didn’t mean to manipulate you to the point of anger.”

“Yes, you did,” John sighs into his shoulder, then lifts his head. “Don’t do it again.” He doesn’t hold out much hope. He might be insanely in love with the man but he’s not insane enough to expect concessions from Sherlock just because they’re now intimate or…boyfriends? He rolls carefully off the sofa, grimacing as the wetness of their combined release cools against his groin and turns toward the bathroom.

“You’re telling me not to do the very thing that has just resulted in this evening’s activities. I have to say that’s quite the mixed message there, Dr Watson.”

John snorts and looks at the man sprawled across the sofa. His curls are a bird’s nest and his lips twitch in a sinful smirk even though his eyes are still closed. He ought to look ridiculous with his shirt rucked up and that one sock that John gave up on, but he finds himself smiling fondly.

“Don’t even think it, Sherlock. I mean it.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock rumbles, drawing it out, making it sound perfectly filthy. He opens his eyes, gets to his feet and, stepping over their discarded clothes, passes John on his way to his bedroom.

Hesitating for a moment, because God forbid that Sherlock bloody Holmes might give him a clue as to what is going on now, John trails him down the corridor. There are conversations to be had and expectations to address. Aren’t there? He pauses by the bathroom door.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock says, his head appearing around his bedroom door. “I don’t think it can be said that I have been comprehensively ‘messed up’ yet. You wouldn’t want to leave a job half done, would you?” He licks his lips and lets his tongue linger a little longer than it should on the abused pink skin of the lower one, drawing John’s eye and making him groan aloud even as he involuntarily steps forward.

“Sherlock, I mean it! You can’t go around just…”

“Arousing? In…citing? Pro…vok…ing?” Sherlock murmurs playfully. He pulls the door open a little, letting John get a glimpse of him in the subdued light of the bedside lamp. His shirt is already gone and his finger is hooked in the waistband of his ruined pants. He’s long and lean and much, much too put-together despite the slight beard-burn and the evidence of their come on him.

John can feel his higher brain functions going offline. If he thought Sherlock was killing him with the teasing before, he has a sudden insight into how it will be between them now and he sighs softly.

He’s basically doomed he realises, because as long as he lives, he will never, ever have had enough of this infuriating, immature, brilliant, magnificent man.

 

Fin


End file.
